"Fantasias in First Light," Tim Bellows
Fantasias in First Light
by Tim Bellows
Before things get going. Taking in the ashy scent
of fireplace embers, I stand by the window, wrapped
in this beige stucco house made of money from Mom and Dad.
The wind storms clearheaves the elms back and forth. I
move my tongue around inside my mouth its
stung with cayenne and ginger sprinkled on eggs.
Work and sleep will come along in their times this day.
My wife will sleep late in the gold-curtained and so
gold-lit guest room. Her cat and actually, each object
stretches, yawns, stirs itself. The poetry scampering in my head
means nothing. The trees thrash; all around me
professors in area schools debate with teachers aides
about the whens and hows of rhetorical modes. Or
whether the outer stars will hold. Close around me
by our window, the morning lake's made perfectly horizontal
by gravity. I speak lines about a certain air that swims as if
teeming with fish, bioluminescent lives in deep abyssal zones,
in more grand, more cold waters. And darker. I
rub the back of my neck, speak in thought, reassure myself,
make the day a wonder: Yes, air teeming with perfected fantasies,
the complete, assembled perceptions of jump for joy. And so it is,
the small boat of my day goes out onto the waters and I
extend outward like its wake, my eyes the magical charms
I wear out my living body to understand.
From Rock Salt Plum Review.
by Tim Bellows
Before things get going. Taking in the ashy scent
of fireplace embers, I stand by the window, wrapped
in this beige stucco house made of money from Mom and Dad.
The wind storms clearheaves the elms back and forth. I
move my tongue around inside my mouth its
stung with cayenne and ginger sprinkled on eggs.
Work and sleep will come along in their times this day.
My wife will sleep late in the gold-curtained and so
gold-lit guest room. Her cat and actually, each object
stretches, yawns, stirs itself. The poetry scampering in my head
means nothing. The trees thrash; all around me
professors in area schools debate with teachers aides
about the whens and hows of rhetorical modes. Or
whether the outer stars will hold. Close around me
by our window, the morning lake's made perfectly horizontal
by gravity. I speak lines about a certain air that swims as if
teeming with fish, bioluminescent lives in deep abyssal zones,
in more grand, more cold waters. And darker. I
rub the back of my neck, speak in thought, reassure myself,
make the day a wonder: Yes, air teeming with perfected fantasies,
the complete, assembled perceptions of jump for joy. And so it is,
the small boat of my day goes out onto the waters and I
extend outward like its wake, my eyes the magical charms
I wear out my living body to understand.
From Rock Salt Plum Review.